His Master's Dog
by yellowhorde
Summary: Cesare sends the infamous assassin Michelotto on a mission. But in the end, when blood has been spilled and the assassin's mask removed, how does Chiaro really feel? Warning: Spoilers for Volume 2 and 3


Disclaimer: I don't own Cantarella and I make no money from this or any other fanfic I write.

Pairing: None

Category: General

Rating: R

Warning: Violence, Death Spoilers for both Volumes 2 and 3.

Title: His Master's Dog

Author: yellowhorde

Note: This was written for the LiveJournal community, 31days. February 13 – _'a killing dance'_

HIS MASTER'S DOG

Thunder rumbled dangerously overhead as the slender youth slid beneath his target's defenses almost effortlessly, his sword slicing out to stifle his opponent's cry. Blood exploded forth in a red fountain, its hot stench mingling with that of the approaching rain, but not a drop touched him, for his feet danced on the wind itself.

"_You…!_"

One of the fallen man's comrades came hurtling toward him, sword raised. Without so much as a pause or break in stride, he dispatched the second man as easily as he had the first, then the third. His bloodied sword flashing blue-silver as it caught and reflected the flickering electricity that lit up the night sky.

He moved with deadly grace, dancing to the beat of his heart, the singing roar of his blood, the screams of dying men. With his assassin's mask firmly in place, he was no longer Chiaro, the sweet and easy-going peasant, but Michelotto, one of the most feared assassins Europe had ever known. And as he slaughtered these would-be assassins with an ease that was almost frightening, he felt nothing, not anger, pity, or remorse.

Or so he kept telling himself.

"P-please spare me!" The last man pleaded, lowering his sword as Michelotto stalked closer, his riding cloak, splattered with blood and gore, flowing heavily about him. "I won't say anything! I'll forget all about you! I swear it!"

For a fraction of a second, Michelotto hesitated and from the cold silent depths of his killer's mind, he conjured Cesare's pale face, his sad eyes. His words, spoken so softly then, whispered through him as clearly as they had on that day over four years ago… the day both of their lives had changed forever.

"_I will not forgive you." Cesare murmured, resting his hand almost gently against the front of Chiaro's shoulder. His fingers, hot as the fires of Hell itself, clutched weakly at the coarse cloth of his doublet._ _"From now on, you will stay by my side, where you can witness the tragedy that is destined to unfurl. That is the price you must pay for the sin you have committed."_

Then he was moving again, the moment over before it had really begun. The memory retreated but the results of his actions on that day lingered on always. With narrowed eyes and tightly pressed lips, he plunged his sword into the heart of the man who bore some small resemblance to the father he had lost all those years ago, his mind blank of all thought, all feeling as he forced himself to concentrate solely on his appointed task.

And when his heightened senses detected a rustling presence behind him, he whirled and, without thought or hesitation, delivered a savage killing blow to, what would turn out to be the man's young, but very foolish, son.

"_Kill them,"_ Cesare had ordered with an air of indifference, _"before they reach Ostia Castle."_

And he had obeyed without protest or question. He _always_ obeyed.

As the rain hissed noisily around him, Chiaro strained his ears but heard nothing, the field was still and as silent as the graveyard it had become. Now, at last, he felt the horror and a burning dismay rip through him and a small, irreplaceable piece of his soul died as he stared down at the father and child that lay dead at his feet, their life's blood dissolving slowly into the wet earth.

Their faces, he knew, more than the others he had killed that had been sent by Cesare's father to kill Cardinal Rovere, would haunt his thoughts and dreams for the rest of his life.

Slowly, he tore away his mask, looked down upon the carnage he had wrought with his own two hands, and despaired. For without his assassin's mask, he was not a cold blooded killer, but only a sad and confused man, who was really no more than his master's dog.

THE END


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